Coverup
by batE
Summary: [SLASH, Evan/Pietro, blah] I wrote this, um, some time ago for Naisumi's bday. Since tomorrow will probably be Evan's last appearance on the show, I decided to post this in his memory. Or something.


Pietro had turned 14 stores inside out before he'd gotten his hands on wrapping paper that had a skateboarding motif. He'd been able to do even better than that – the paper he found had the likeness of a famous person on a skateboard embossed on its glossy surface. Sure it was pink, and the famous person in question was Barbie, but it was close enough. And wasn't it the thought that counted?

Well, no. Not in this case, anyway. There was, in fact, a _very good chance that Evan would kill him – assuming, that is, that he survived the mortification of having a locker covered in Barbie wrapping paper and a matching pink bow. But what was love without a little humiliation thrown in now and again? He and Evan had operated on that principle almost their entire lives – why screw around with a formula that worked?_

Pietro stood in shadows, turning the parcel over in his hands, gazing at it with a beatific smile. It was nice and peaceful (and clean!) in the hallways of Bayville High just an hour and a half before the doors would open to the multitudes. The floors were still damp with disinfectant, the smell of Pine Sol and lemon Pledge commingling to create a heady, head-swimming scent that would not have been out of place at a hospital or a morgue. Pietro looked at the wet floors with distaste – to do this right, he was going to have to get on his knees at some point -- he halted that train of thought with a smile, remembering a conversation he'd had along those lines with Evan – and it'd be a little difficult to explain damp spots on his knees to, well, anyone. 

He surveyed the area to be covered, nodding slightly. If he could do this really fast – Quicksilver-plus speed, to say the least – he should be okay, but – the speedster glanced around reflexively – he'd have to keep an eye and ear open for the janitor or anyone else who might find it odd that there was a whirlwind in the North Hallway. A whirlwind that left not destruction, but pink Barbie paper, in its wake.

The area of the speedster's brain that was capable of rational, lucid thought was advising him to forgo the decorating job and give Evan a fighting chance of enjoying his fifteenth birthday. The rest of his brain, however, silenced the sensible voice – he'd put waaaay too much time and effort and energy into the preparations to back out now – besides, Evan had as good as asked for it. Wasn't he the one who whined about not being able to go to the City to celebrate his birthday in _style (whatever that meant)? That there wasn't a damn thing decent to do in Bayville? That his 24-hour stay in the forefront of the consciousnesses of  his friends' and relatives would likely be spent in utter boredom. A boredom that involved gifts and cards stuffed with money, but boredom, nonetheless._

So, yes. Evan may not have been _consciously aware of it, but every line in his subtly muscled body had cried out for what was about to transpire – a glimmer of excitement, something that would get the whole school – or at least those who shared the locker area with the blond – talking. Evan would thank him later, Pietro was sure. Privately. Repeatedly. The speedster's calm grin turned carnivorous. It was time to begin._

He wondered why he didn't feel more tired – it had been well after two before he'd gotten off the phone with Evan, who'd given Pietro every opportunity to tell him that he'd made some sort of plans for the next day. The speedster kept a resolute silence, deftly sidestepping Evan's not-so-subtle questions ("So, we're getting together tomorrow, right?" "I've got dinner and cake and stuff at the Mansion at 7 . . . but it's not like we we're going to be doing anything that'd keep me out later, right? _Right?") Pietro almost laughed at the pout in the darker teen's voice when right before they'd wrapped up the call, Pietro offered a half-hearted, "Oh yeah -- happy birthday." _

Poor Evan. After all these years, the dark blond _still didn't know how to read him. And after all these years, Pietro was still tickled to use the boy's weakness – except now, it was going to be used to __Evan's advantage, not his. He was aware, though that blond might not see it that way._

Stripping off the plastic covering, Pietro shook out the wrapping paper, letting the material flutter near to the ground in one solid sheet. Endless renditions of Barbie, all suited up, and bending stiffly over her board, dotted the slick paper, and Pietro smiled, reminding himself to save as much of the wrapping as he could. Holiday season was coming up, and something this special should never go to waste. 

Pietro whistled to himself as he switched into Quicksilver mode, cutting out a swath that would cover the locker from top to bottom, with a generous hole cut out to accommodate the lock. Tape was produced next, and as he tore of long strips of the sticky material, he thought back to P.S. 104, where he'd first seen this bizarre ritual of decorating a birthday person's locker with wrapping paper. Sometimes balloons or streams of crepe paper were added if the person in question was in the top tier of the school's popularity hierarchy. Only the preps and the Park Slope cliques had done it, really – they were the only ones corny enough to think of such a thing. Just about everyone else thought the whole thing was stupid – the wrapping paper inevitably ended up in shreds by day's end, and the birthday person was left with a shredded-looking locker and a big mess to clean up. But the practice continued, nonetheless.

The jocks, though, had their own way of marking birthdays, and it, too, involved lockers – and the copious use of those old hazing standbys, whipped and/or shaving cream – and in a few special cases, dirty jockstraps. Pietro was never so glad that he'd kept his day of birth a well-guarded secret as when he'd witnessed four or five members of the basketball squad emptying can after can of Reddi-Whip into the locker of their starting point guard. All in the name of team unity and celebration, of course. To the speedster's knowledge, Evan had never gotten the cream treatment, but since the mahogany-skinned teen was apparently suffering a bout of homesickness, and since Pietro was in a rare nostalgic mood, well, maybe he could remedy _that as well. With some modifications._

With typical Quicksilver flair, he put the paper in place, secured it with tape, smoothed out any unruly corners and bulges, and placed the bow at a jaunty angle right near the first row of Barbies. Three seconds later, he stepped back, surveying his handiwork. It was like something out of the PS 104 preps' wet dreams. The swiftness of his movements hadn't hindered the quality of the job in the slightest; the locker was completely swathed in the bright paper. Edges were straight and crisp, the bow was just right, and the glossy surface gave off a subtle gleam that looked almost otherworldly in the muted light of the hallway. The gaudy pattern and the color of the paper made the narrow locker stand out amongst the sea of gray that surrounded it, making it look like a glittering Christmas gift dropped in the midst of more mundane packages.

"Daniels. I am _so good to you." Pietro grinned, running a gentle hand down the smooth surface, spinning the lock with his other hand in a practiced motion. A half twist to the left, a full spin to the right, and then a sloooow drag to the center . . . _

The door gaped open, confined darkness yawning before him. Pietro allowed himself a small smile at the ease of the entry – it had been a wonderful thing to have wormed the combination out of Evan early on in the relationship. Sure, he'd have been able to get in without it, but the Quicksilver way had its downside -- possible prosecution chief among them. No need to walk down _that particular road again._

Stooping low, Pietro leaned into the dimness, moving and rearranging some of the blond's personal effects and books to make a little bit more room to maneuver. An extra shirt found its way to a higher shelf, textbooks that looked like they hadn't been opened that decade were shoved farther back. An unidentifiable black disk was taken out, examined closely, and discarded in the nearest trashcan with alacrity. It was some minutes of the shuffling before the speedster pronounced himself satisfied with the space he'd created and moved to put things in place. The speed demon smirked inwardly, positively twitching in anticipation at what was to come. 

From the same bag that had held the wrapping paper, he pulled out a small white box, Good 'N' Plenty Bakery stamped atop it in proud magenta print. Resting on his haunches, he cracked open the little container and stared in. An errant lock of hair fell into his face, obscuring his view momentarily of a miniature chocolate cake, complete with shirred fondant and chocolate sprinkles. It looked great – Lance hadn't been kidding about this place. The brunet had been had been the one who'd hipped him to the bakery's existence (who learned about the place via his bespectacled boyfriend, Pietro was sure), and so far, the speedy mutant was impressed by what he saw – and smelled. Evan, chocoholic that he was, would doubtless have a similar reaction. . . when he got around to _eating it, that is. The dark, decadent treat might be a little hard to find once Pietro got finished with the piece de resistance._

Which brought him to the last item in the shopping bag – a spray can of decorative cream – about the same consistency as whipped cream, but with much more staying power, at least according to the pimply weirdo at the A & P. Just the sight of the can brought a smile to the white-haired youth's face. He'd watched enough jocks to have been able to memorize their technique in this matter. In just about every case, speed was an issue: the locker was yanked (or pried, whatever) open, the offending cream was squirted in as quickly as possible. But this . . . _this was different, Pietro acknowledged. This wasn't going to be, __couldn't be a rush job for a change. __This he'd have to finesse a little. _

Arranging the box in the dead center of the bottom of the locker, he took up his 'weapon,' smirking with the confidence of a man who'd just pulled a fast one –

Oooh, _fast. He mentally slapped himself. Dammit, he'd nearly forgotten the __other important thing!_

Reaching into his backpack, he fumbled around for a moment before his fingertips brushed the desired object, and he yanked it free. In his grip was the one gift he could give Evan on school property – at least without fear of being arrested or beat into the ground by homophobic assholes. He ran a thumb over the DVD he held – an extended version of Tony Hawk's Skatepark Tour 2002 – complete with never-before-seen footage and some other junk that didn't mean a damn thing to Pietro, but would probably have the blond pissing his pants. 

The speed demon gave a silent thanks to Summers, who'd given him a hint as to what Evan was jonesing for most. The disc was apparently a hot-seller around the country – which made Pietro a little sad for the state of humanity in general – but he'd managed to score one with little fuss. A visit to the local Tower, a sob story to a sweet, but dense, salesgirl about a "sick friend who would really, really love to have a copy." A week and a few well-considered grins later, Pietro was holding the coveted disc in one hand, and discarding the salesgirl's phone number with the other. He'd wondered if she had noticed that she'd neglected to ask him to _pay for the item. Ah, well. All in all, it had been a lot easier to find than the wrapping paper._

Turning back to the locker, Pietro scanned the disc to make sure no price tags or other unsightly stickers were attached, save for the yellow post-it he'd put there himself. Satisfied, he stood it up between the back of the locker and the back edge of the pastry box. There now. Everything was nice, neat and arranged.

Time for the finishing touch.

Scanning the directions, Pietro's hand was a blur as he shook the canister. After a few seconds, satisfied that the contents within were as mixed up as they were going to be, he discarded the safety ring, popped the top, and in an exploratory measure, squirted a bit of the stuff onto his finger. A good-size dollop covered the pad of his index finger, and he licked it clean, thoroughly pleased at the taste. It was thicker than standard whipped cream, and a good bit more sugary, too. Not bad. Not bad at all.  He'd chosen well.

Squirting a bit more onto his fingertips, he tasted more of the sweet substance, making a mental note to pick more of it up for . . . later. Once Evan saw this stuff in action, he might want to renew his acquaintance with it in a more . . . _private setting under quite . . . different circumstances. _

Sequestering that thought for a moment, he focused on the job at hand. Holding the can at a slight angle he depressed the button. With quick, but deliberate sweep of his arm, the cream streamed out, hitting its target. Pietro grinned somewhat maniacally as he worked, whistling a little as he got to the tail end of the task, his heart pounding a little, his hand noting the decreasing weight of the can as the substance flowed out of it.

He closed the container, sticking another yellow post-it on top of the box. There. It was done, and done well. He nodded in approval. Nice . . . very nice. Messy, yes, but very cool, indeed. Once he got over the initial shock and uncovered what lay beneath the sea of white, Pietro had no doubt that Evan would be kissing his feet – or maybe something _else - in thanks. There was, of course, the off-chance that he'd attempt to rip his face off, but Pietro chose to think of the positive. It was a nice late-fall day, he'd done something neat for his boyfriend, and it was highly possible that he'd be suitably rewarded at a later time. _

And there was Barbie! In pink! On a skateboard. Another chuckle. It just didn't get any better than this. Not by a long shot.

Pietro blinked in pain when the subdued lighting in the hallway suddenly became a flood of blinding fluorescence, and a meld of voices coming from the main office down the hall. Dark-blue eyes narrowed – the teachers and other staff were filtering in, and soon with them would come the floods of students. Quiet time in the cavernous building was over.

With a gentle push, he closed the door, listening for and hearing the subtle click that indicated the locker was shut tight, locked and secure. He took a last look at Skating Barbie, running gentle fingers down the lustrous paper. For a moment, the pallid face became serious, thoughtful. Barbie smiled on.

"Happy birthday, Ev."

 He pressed his forehead to the door, feeling the cool surface of the thin metal even beneath the delicate covering. Pulling back, he smoothed the place where his forehead had been, and with a last sardonic grin, gathered his bags and prepared to scout out a place to hang while he waited for school to "officially" open.

~*~

It would be a quick death. Painless – relatively so, anyway.

What could he say? It was his birthday. He was in a charitable mood.

Evan hadn't bought for a minute Pietro's Couldn't-Care-Less-About-Your-Birthday routine. Well, maybe he _would have if he hadn't been able to get Scott to divulge information he'd gleaned on his last, er, __visit to the Brotherhood home. In truth, the older teen hadn't said much – just mentioned that in recent days, Pietro peppered him with some very __interesting questions, and had gotten Lance to loosen his death grip on the keys to the Jeep long enough for the speedster to run a few errands. _

That was all the blond needed to know. Those tidbits of information, coupled with the ambiguous vagueness of Pietro's words warned him to expect something big, something out there, something that he was not going to forget for quite awhile.

So far, he was three for three.

Evan ran an exploratory hand over his locker, caressing the cheap metal beneath the garish pink paper. The dark-skinned teen only half-heard the snickers around him, only-half-saw the stares – running the gamut from curious, to amused, to _mrrr? – in reaction to the sea of Barbies covering his locker. A reluctant grin burrowed its way from the depths of his consciousness, taking up residence on the bemused face. Pink. Barbie. __Boarding. And with damn good form, too, he had to admit. Son of a gun._

The bow was a bit much, he conceded, eyeing the floppy satiny loops, but then, that too was a hallmark of Pietro. Everything was an extreme with _him – which gave Evan pause for a moment . . . it __could be that there was more to come. He glanced around the hallway, face flushing hot whenever he met the amused glances of passersby. Rogue passed by, eyes wide at the sight. She seemed about to comment, but thought better of it, becoming suddenly and completely engrossed in something going on down the hall. _

Laughter and stares were the more common reaction, however, with pointing and slack-jawed gaping thrown in for good measure. Evan hunched his shoulders, sighing. Back at 104, he'd always thought the locker-decoration routine kind of cool, in an I'd-Never-Do-That type of way. It was cool to have friends who cared enough to do _something above and beyond the typical store-bought-card-that-everyone-signed-at-the-last-minute routine. His buddies, in fact, had never even gone that far: "Dude! Your birthday's today? Sweeeeeeeeet! Now watch me stomp this 50-50 grind, man!" was about as far as it had ever gone._

As nice as he thought the sentiment was, however, he'd never had the desire to be on the receiving end of such treatment. It was way too flashy, too in-your-face for his taste – especially in a place like Bayville. Also, this seemed to be something _girls would appreciate more, what with the pretty paper and the ribbons and all. Now he might be a practicing pouf, but he was __hardly girly -- a fact he was sure his silvery boyfriend would be happy to attest to – and this sort of thing was mad embarrassing._

The blond understood that was the _point. Pietro __knew that putting this stuff up on his locker was akin to placing a "Kick Me" sign on his back, singling him out for ridicule and general degradation. Ah, Pietro. Evan knew the boy well enough to know that this sort of treatment was standard Maximoff procedure for lovers and enemies alike, though Evan had to admit having his locker tricked out was much preferable to having it burglarized or vandalized._

The ringing of the bell brought him out of his musings. Evan blinked in mild surprise – apparently, he'd spent the better part of 15 minutes in a pink-induced stupor, because he could have sworn that the start of homeroom was quite a ways away. Ignoring the questioning glances of his locker neighbors, who were now departing for various classes, the dark teen attacked his lock, a feeling of sadness overtaking him suddenly. As at P.S. 104, assholes abounded in Bayville High, and there was a good chance that when next he returned to his locker, Barbie would be in shreds at the foot of it. For a moment, the blond wavered, wondering if he should just take the paper down himself – Maximoff had proven his point, he _hadn't forgotten his birthday after all, everything was all good. And it might be considered an act of Good Samaritism to spare anyone else the sight of Barbie on a pink skateboard._

A few more moments of indecision, then he resolutely decided to leave it be. For now. Dark fingers plucked at a corner of the wrapping, hesitating. It had probably taken Pietro all of two seconds to put it up . . . would take much longer to take it down without ripping it.

But that wasn't why he decided to leave it alone. Well, that wasn't the _only reason, anyway. The one area of his brain that wasn't wincing in pain at the spectacle was moved and a little choked up by the gesture. He and Pietro hardly ever got mushy with each other – it wasn't really their style – so this was a surprise. While not necessarily a __good one, it was heartfelt and genuine, __that much was obvious. And that knowledge made enduring the humiliation worth it. Besides, it reminded him of home, and that was never a bad thing._

He let his hand glide gently over the paper as he yanked his locker open, realizing that in another five minutes, he'd be late to homeroom and in serious danger of receiving attention. Maybe if he told Mrs. McGruder it was his birthday . . . undoubtedly, she understood the concept – by the looks of it, she'd had about 500 of them –

All thought ceased when the door swung outward, and he stared into the depths of his locker. Pale shafts of incandescent light crisscrossed the threshold, illuminating the dark space and the contents within.

_Wow._

Now _this was  . . . unexpected._

Evan stooped quickly, almost falling into the narrow area in his haste. Bracing himself against the side of the locker, he gazed in . . . a look of trepidation transforming into quite a different expression altogether. Trembling fingers removed a disc that was wedged between a curious-looking white box and the back of his locker. 

A yellow post-it was stuck right above Bob Burnquist's head. His gaze burned into the red lettering on the note:

_Enjoy. But, don't ever blow me off  to watch this crap, unless it's in the literal sense. P._

Holy. Hell. Skatepark Tour 2002? Hawk's _Skatepark__ Tour 2002? That absolutely floored him; more so than the  . . . friendly little note, which was . . . yes. But Skatepark 2002? How the hell did he __know? Pietro had made it quite clear that he tolerated rather than enjoyed Evan's skateboarding obsession, so the blond had never thought to mention that he'd been driving himself and just about everyone within a 300 foot radius crazy by bringing up how essential this disc was to his very existence. Glancing over his shoulder at the empty stretch of hallway, he took the box out slowly, catching his bottom lip between his teeth. Besides, he'd not thought Pietro would __get him anything, knowing that the cash flow in the Brotherhood household was more like a cash droplet – and this, man, __this was pretty unbelievable. And keeping in mind that he'd walked into school to find his locker Barbieized, __that was saying something._

Quite aware that he was quite late for homeroom, and even more aware that he really didn't give a fuck, Evan balanced himself on his heels, ignoring the ache in his thighs as he maintained his squatting position. There was more, much more, apparently, to uncover. He reached for the white box, grinning a little. The blond's stomach growled – he hadn't been too hungry for his "birthday French toast," and now the delicious chocolate scent of  that could hardly be contained by the thin cardboard box was wreaking havoc on his senses. He spied another post-it on the side of the box, ripping it off impatiently. Now what?

More red lettering. Less . . . dramatic this time. Evan read:

_Follow the instructions. Consider it a practice run for tonight. Usual place. As soon as you can get away. And . . . you better save me a piece._

_What the? An eyebrow quirked, and the blond spent a few seconds musing over the  . . . well, he __guessed it was a message. Whatever. He'd have plenty of opportunity to analyze the white-haired teen and his bizarreness at a later date – on a full stomach, hopefully. Mouth watering in anticipation, he made short work of the tape that held the box shut and opened it quickly, looking with eager eyes at the contents . . ._

Looked some more.

Swallowed hard.

Took another chocolate-infused breath, a slow smile of comprehension overtaking the lower part of his face.

The blond straightened up slowly, dimly aware that up and down the hall, doors were closing, teachers were beginning their normal routines, and the school day was starting. And there _he was, a good eight hours into his 15th birthday, standing in front of the most ridiculous-looking locker in the place, grinning like an idiot, staring into a box containing a small cake that had two words written in large, fluffy, edible-looking white lettering._

_Lick me._

*Fin*


End file.
